


No Darker Place, I Think, Than You

by blackazuresoul



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackazuresoul/pseuds/blackazuresoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Muraki seeks to draw out Tsuzuki using Hisoka as bait. A re-telling of events that took place in episode 3 of the anime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Darker Place, I Think, Than You

_You were merely human; destined to be ruined._

  
  
  
  
Hisoka ran after the man that watched them from the shadows, leaving Tsuzuki without a sound. There was something about the stranger that seemed oddly familiar and his skin burned acutely when a flash of mismatched eyes passed through his mind, eyes that observed the teen from over the plane of his own thigh.  
  
A gasp left the blonde’s mouth and he pursued the tall figure to the darkened pavilion, a swatch of light parting a cloud above. The moon shone down, veiled in crimson, to throw the tree-lined area into a sickening light and Hisoka stopped in his tracks. His breath panted quietly from open lips, narrowed eyes tinted a dull and indeterminate colour by the light above.  
  
The man stood several feet away and slowly turned to face him, his white overcoat billowing with the movement and thrown into blush relief. “Strange I should find you here,” he said, adjusting a glove. Hisoka stared at him, brows furrowed. He tried to remember– _remember what?_.  
  
“Y-you know me?” the teen asked quietly, reaching out with his senses and coming up short, blank nothingness given in answer.  
  
“Ah, yes. You’re still in the trance, of course. To think it carried…” An acidic smile caroused with the man’s lips and he raised a hand, fingers meeting to sound a muted snap. Hisoka felt something inside shatter and then he was falling; falling into a blissful black that gave way for a sharp and blinding white.  
  


********************

  
  
  
Hisoka moaned within the netherworld bonds he found himself in, the seemingly delicate hairs dug and cut into tender skin and the scent of his blood hung heavy in the darkened room. In the shadows, Muraki lingered, one hand loosely holding the pearlised grip of the shinigami’s gun– the other lovingly stroking the short barrel. His fingers traced over the stamped metal without sparing the captive a glance.  
  
The teen shook his head, attempting to parse out the clips of buried memories that would pass before his eyes like a faulty slideshow. A red moon, the feel of cool breeze on bare skin, the scent of sakura petals and still-warm grass. Acute pain. “Stop it…just go away,” the blonde groaned, his struggles pulling the razor sharp hairs tighter against his wrists and throat. He hissed as fresh blood trickled from his bindings, running down beneath his shirt and dripping from hanging fingertips.

  
“Now, where would be the fun in that?” the doctor commented freely, thumbing the safety latch provocatively. “Eliminate one problem and ten others rush in to take its place. So very tedious.” Muraki nudged the safety off on the gun and with a warm grin, took aim at the boy then pulled the trigger. A single shot smouldered from the upended bed the teen was tied to, the smoking bullet hole inches from Hisoka’s head. His heart thundered in his chest as he stared blankly at his captor, green eyes widened then constricted, his breath truncated and shallow.  
  
With a sense of embarrassment and dread at his lack of fortitude, the teen felt a trickle of moisture snake its way down his left leg and he closed his eyes, trying to school his errant heart rate. He just pissed himself– like a little kid! Without his bidding, Hisoka reached out again with his mind and sensed darkness-- an undulating nothingness torn now and then by hot stabs of red, murderous intent. The boy felt a tear roll down his cheek to follow the angle of his chin. It meandered its way along the column of his throat, stinging the open cuts there.  
  
The strange man approached his captive, elbow bent to hold the gun near his shoulder. Muraki had always found the smell of gunpowder pleasant, particularly when engaged in a languid dance with the scent of fear. It was almost tangible on his tongue as it wormed from the seam of his lips to glide along the full surface of his lower set.  
  
Hisoka was as much the picture of adolescent innocence as he had been that warm night three years ago. His body still bore the curse, red lines tainting pale flesh when silver eyes looked at him just so. The boy had bent beautifully to his lusts, his body drawing him in even as his throat refuted the act in muffled screams behind a well-placed palm. The bite Hisoka had clamped around the meat of his hand had thrown the doctor into a hard orgasm and Muraki purred with the recollection. All of the other times he’d taken the boy during Hisoka’s three year-long demise had proven uninspired yet served their purpose– to strengthen the curse and the bond that had carried over even into death.  
  
Hisoka was truly his.  
  
Indignant eyes burned from beneath tousled blonde locks and the man beamed down at his chattel. “Tell me, my dear Hisoka. Have you ever heard the saying: ‘Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it’? “ he asked as he drew the nose of the pistol down the centre of Hisoka’s chest, it stuttering along boy’s shirt buttons. Muraki loosed a quiet chuckle, the gun travelling further down to lift from the young man’s stomach. “I suppose it redundant of me to ask how you think your death will be played, ne.” he mused then turned his gaze to Hisoka's hanging fingers.  
  
 _Why is he so sick?.._  
  
Steady rivulets of blood welled at Hisoka’s fingertips to drip soundlessly, the tethers at his wrist cutting further into raw flesh. The sight was intoxicating and Muraki leaned forward to capture a drop on the tip of his tongue, sampling the sanguine offering. “Perfect, as always,” he oiled then parted thin lips again, taking Hisoka’s finger between them to its full length. As he tipped his chin up, the finger followed, falling as the doctor released his hold.

  
“L-let me go,” the blonde breathed, his voice strained from what had felt like hours of yelling for his partner. Hisoka had no way of knowing where Muraki had taken him and could only hang impotently from his tethers– waiting for his captor to finally show himself.  
  
Muraki licked his lips and took a step back from Hisoka, his face affecting the moue of indecision before melting into a comfortable smirk. “I don’t think you really want that, do you,” the man stated, raising the shinigami’s gun once more. “I certainly don’t.” The piece fit well in his palm, elegant fingers curling around the grip and the nose firmly pressed beneath Hisoka’s chin. “At least we’ll have some time together before your Mister Tsuzuki arrives.” Muraki noted the flash of surprise that ghosted across the boy’s face, only to fall when a silver eye turned to him. “You really think I wouldn’t give him a sporting chance? Oh, how short-sighted of you.”  
  
Green eyes rolled over to look at the man from their corners, his chin painfully tilted by the muzzle of the gun. “What do you want from me?” he groaned. Hisoka’s sight became hazy and unfocused. He soon discovered why as a thick tear breached golden lashes. Muraki’s warm breath puffed against his cheek and he extended his tongue to capture the solitary drop. “Your sorrow is delectable, my precious doll,” the doctor whispered against the moist flesh and granted it a cursory peck. “And I reserve the right to take more.”  
  
The gun shifted to press firmly against the pulse point of Hisoka’s throat, the elevated throb causing it to vibrate softly. Blood and metal. “You will always return to me. Death only makes our union stronger,” the doctor told Hisoka, the feather touch of his lips murdering the teen’s ear. “The cry of your blood intoxicates me and your carefully hidden want burns my mark that much deeper into your beautiful flesh.” The shinigami’s gun moved further down his chest, the deafening sound of a shot ringing in Hisoka’s ears even before he felt the searing pain. A moment’s hesitation and the scream that tore from his throat was echoing in the high-ceilinged room.  
  
Muraki carelessly discarded the weapon, sending it to skitter and spin along the smooth floor. His fingers lifted to gently caress the fresh wound. A smile curled on the man’s lips as he relished the anguished cry, the pad of his index finger touching the embedded bullet. “Oh, don’t fuss so much, boy. That’s the irritating thing about Guardians of Death– they heal,” he observed casually then brought the bloody digits to his lips; taking pains to clean each fingertip. “Only this one holy medium gives me peace of mind,” Muraki whispered to himself and shot the blonde a toothy grin. Already, the small hole in Hisoka’s abdomen was rejecting the object and the man watched as the bullet dropped to the ground.  
  
It was a damn shame, really.  
What was it they said about a hole being a hole…  
  
“Perhaps I should make you remember, Hisoka. After all, a one-sided love affair can be so very trying on a man’s patience,” the doctor observed then moved an open hand closer to the blonde’s forehead. Hisoka protested, thrashing in his sharp bonds to avoid the touch. A scream cracked his throat as Muraki clamped fingers around the curvature of his temples and the flood of memories washed over Hisoka like so much water– all tinted red with the blood of his stolen innocence.  
  
“No!” he shouted, eyes closed but unable to stave off the barrage of images that stabbed at his conscious like thousands of tiny knives– each aimed at breaking him further.  
A beautiful sakura grove, dulled by the blushed moon. The scent of flower petals and clover on the warm wind that caressed his yukata. Beneath the largest tree, two figures pressed together in a mockery of a lovers’ embrase. The male figure had kissed her neck, his raising hand drawing a slash of silver down into her body.  
  
Blood.  
  
Hisoka’s heartbeat pounded in his ears as he ran, ran from the horror he’d witnessed– haulted by a bone white hand around his slender wrist. No, it wasn’t white. It was red, like the front of the man’s coat and shirt; a shapeless stain that transferred to the silk robe he wore. Hisoka could feel the sticky fluid seeping through his yukata as he was pushed to the ground and tasted the tears that moistened his cheeks.  
  
Pain.  
  
The white hot press of the man inside his virgin body, his tears giving way to raw screams that were muzzled beneath the clamp of a bloodied hand over his mouth, the other pinning his wrists to the unforgiving ground beneath him. Hisoka’s own shame, full and trapped between their bodies sent fresh tears with each separate assault– each stolen inch of virtue forever gone as the man above him spoke soundless words into his deaf ear. Mismatched eyes fixed on the waves of despair that cut across his face, his tragic reflection mocking him from the circles of glass that sat in front of that sinistre gaze.  
  
Anguish.  
  
Lines of come and blood forming filagreed arabesques over Hisoka’s chest that spread with whispered words of power to encircle his arms and thighs. Bright red patterns of the bond that would forever mark and tether him to the one that called himself a doctor. A bright white angel of darkness that haunted him to the netherworld– the one that smiled beyond the hand that now moved from his forehead.  
  
“Ah, the memories,” Muraki sighed, lowering his hand to brush away the luminous tracks that crossed Hisoka’s face. The blonde’s breathing was laboured, forced, as he tried to shake the nausea that overtook him with the pain of remembering the beginning of the end. “They still provide a pleasant diversion for me, boy,” the doctor added and brushed a thick strand of hair away from Hisoka’s watery gaze. “I had wondered if I would ever see you again after you died. It seems even the Fates recognise our destiny, ne?”  
  
Muraki snaked a gloved hand between them to caress Hisoka’s cock through his pants, the boy twisting in a vain attempt to avoid the touch. A smile bloomed on the man’s face and he leaned into Hisoka, his hot breath puffing over the shell of an ear. “Your mind responds to me, my doll. Does your body still remember?” he thought aloud, the tip of his tongue tracing the cartilage; his fingers below working to tease the flaccid flesh. Muraki’s free hand carded through the tousled blonde hair and gripped the back of Hisoka’s skull as he whispered into his ear.  
  
“Clover.”  
  
Hisoka gasped, feeling every nerve ending pulse and tingle with the suggestion; his cock growing beneath the doctor’s hand. He tilted his head back, defeated, and Muraki purred his approval. “So obedient. I’m pleased,” he drawled into the teen’s ear. Muraki worked open the buttonfly of Hisoka’s jeans, parting the material to slip his hand beneath the underwear. The boy’s moan vibrated against the doctor’s cheek and silver eyes narrowed with the smile he formed along the blonde’s jawline.  
Muraki’s hand moved slowly, teasing the crown every other stroke with the pad of his gloved thumb. He could feel the kid’s precome wicking through the material and he nipped at the pulsepoint along Hisoka’s throat. After all, what was a pair of gloves when compared to the success of an experiment?  
  
“Please…don’t,” the teen groaned. He hated the way his body responded to Muraki’s touch, hated that if he dared think of anything other than the sensations forced from his flesh that pain would rocket through him and burn the curse hotter into his skin. Hisoka hated that he could never achieve orgasm from his own hand that even neared the mind-shattering release at Muraki’s ministrations. He knew he was cursed– he was damned– and even if his partner rescued him, Tsuzuki could never free him from the chain that had been forged.  
  
“I never dreamed I would have the pleasure of this hunt again,” the doctor mused then raised his hand to taste Hisoka from his thumb, silver eyes noting every twitch that disturbed the beautiful visage before him. “You will always feel me inside you.” Muraki snapped his fingers and the razor hair fell away from the blonde’s legs. Hisoka wanted to kick out, wanted to struggle away from the man, but his mind remained mired within the hold placed on it.

  
Through series of neurons and synapses, a dark portrait of lust came to life. The nightmare continued behind citrine eyes, strings of ragged memory compelling his desire for completion. Nights in a hospital bed, cool hands mapping burning red figures on the canvas of Hisoka’s flesh. Hands that pulled his come from him in thick ribbons to burn his chest. Hands that parted him to make way for Muraki’s hatred knifing inside and all with a sharp white smile that ate the boy’s ignominy like candy. “You're tethered before me, waiting for me to violate you, even as you hate me for what I've done to you.”  
  
For three years Hisoka had given Muraki what was left of himself. Pieces of his soul taken each time the doctor fucked him, chrystal laughter echoing off the sterile-white walls of his prison-- his tomb. But now the game had changed, as had the rules. Hisoka knew that death was never an escape, that as a Guardian he would never be pardoned of this man that seemed to live forever. His eyes dilated and the room seemed to melt like a watercolour, save for the doctor. Muraki was all that remained in sharp relief, his painfully pleased grin exhuming the innocense he once carried only to murder it anew.  
  
Hisoka barely registered the gasp that drooled from his lips, but the sensation of air against his skin prompted the teen to tip his chin. His trousers had been pulled from his body and Muraki cocked his own head in thought. “Hmm. A broken doll. Perhaps just this once, I’ll repair you.” Whispering words to himself, he touched the boy’s forehead and Hisoka’s mind righted itself. He kicked outward, jaw clenched and Muraki stepped to the side; observing his quarry thrash and dig the bindings further into his wrists and throat. “Oh, do be careful,” the doctor admonished casually. “Even a Guardian of Death will succumb to that much blood loss and I won’t have you bringing the curtain down when we’ve just started.” A hand cracked across Hisoka’s face and the teen’s gaze fell to watch in horror as Muraki methodically opened the white linen trousers he wore.  
  
The blonde kicked outward again but his ankle was caught in the doctor’s iron grasp. The corner of Muraki's mouth curled upward. “You certainly have more fight to you now and yet your body thrills with the anticipation of me claiming it once more. It’s hypocritical.”  
  
“Get off me! I don’t want…”  
  
“I beg to differ-- as does your cock, little boy,” Muraki countered and moved in, wrapping Hisoka’s leg around his middle. “Even now, you steel yourself for the first sweet stab that completes you.”  
  
“No!”  
  
“I think it’s a little late to lie, don’t you?” the doctor remarked and pushed past the snug ring of muscle that guarded his prise, the teen’s cries telegraphing the pain that surged through his pelvis. Muraki gritted his teeth and urged himself further inside, his own discomfort within Hisoka’s unprepared passage marrying with the anguished whimpers that capered on the blonde’s overused throat. The man felt delicate tissue give way, tearing to thinly paint the channel in deep red essence. Hisoka’s blood was hot, the scent heavy in the air of the darkened room and Muraki’s hands clamped around bound wrists, narrow swatchmarks of blood crossing the palms of his gloves. “I had forgotten how tight you are, boy,” he hissed into his ear and his breath moved the damp strands of hair that framed it. “How unlike the others you have proved to be.”  
  
Hisoka let out a wretched moan, hating himself for the feelings that capsised in his brain. Hatred was washed away by need and as much as his limbs wanted to protest, to lash out at their tormentor, they stilled in favour of the heat that continued to build low in his belly. Is this what shame felt like? When Muraki bit a kiss from his lips, Hisoka tasted his own blood on his tongue. Was that the flavour of reproach? The smell of hard sex was all around them and the doctor’s torso moved in jolts against him– was that the scent of derision?  
  
The teen’s stomach churned with each harsh thrust into his prostate and his cock twitched with little regard for the humiliation his brain futilely tried to seize from the ether.  
Tears ran in streams from his eyes and Hisoka’s cries mocked him from the shadowed corners, pointing accusatory fingers along the cold floor.  
  
The blonde drew his chin back and spit at the doctor, the small mass of saliva and blood landing at the corner of Muraki’s grinning mouth. His lavender eye flashed from behind a thick section of hair and he paused, stilling inside Hisoka. The boy met that gaze and Muraki edged out his tongue, a single swipe to bring the viscous line into his mouth. The doctor quietly snorted and thrust hard into Hisoka, his hands dropping to hold the teen’s hips as he fucked him. “Your disgust is delicious, Hisoka-kun,” he rasped, a dark leer tearing across his lips as he felt the boy’s release between them, soaking his tailor-made shirt. A few more punishing thrusts and Muraki came inside the young man, white even teeth finding purchase in Hisoka’s neck as he rode his orgasm.  
  
The taste of the boy’s blood was sharp on his tongue and Muraki carefully licked the abused skin, his cock slowly sliding out of Hisoka’s body. Green eyes, when the doctor cared to look up, were focused on a dark corner of the room, dried salty trails revisited with belated drops that Hisoka tried to shake off with a jerk of his chin. Muraki pulled a pristine handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit coat and wiped himself of his come and the boy’s blood. He pulled a finger through Hisoka’s spend and tasted it, silver trained on the kid’s tormented visage. “And your demeanour _whorish_ ,” the doctor concluded then raised a hand to tightly fist within the damp blonde hair at the back of the teen’s head, and kissed him.  
  
Redressing the young man, Muraki turned attention to himself and slid on his white overcoat. Secreting the used handkerchief in a pocket, he passed Hisoka a dark turn of lips and pulled the mobile phone from his left pocket. The sound of numbers dialed cut through the near quiet and in a flash, the doctor had the nose of Hisoka’s gun firm against the teen’s forehead. He moved the weapon down the bridge of his nose and tapped the underside of Hisoka’s chin with its sight.  
“Open.” Muraki commanded and the blonde reluctantly obeyed, only to take the barrel of the gun between his teeth. “One whisper and Tsuzuki will need a dustpan to clean you up,” he threatened then turned his head to speak into the phone. His left arm, rigid at the elbow, held the gun in place as he casually conversed with the man on the other line, his thumb pulling back the hammer to load a bullet into the gun’s chambre.  
  
“Yes. I’ll be waiting for you in the place where we first met…”


End file.
